


Hindsight

by ivesia19



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Slow Build, alcohol use, pensive Cas, restless Dean, revisioned season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 20:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4362620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivesia19/pseuds/ivesia19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Can <i>you</i> feel this?” he asks again, and the way he asks the question makes something shock Castiel down to his core, making him feel separate from this borrowed vessel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hindsight

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from my livejournal

\---

Castiel would never be so arrogant to claim omnipotence – not like his Father – but still, it’s rare that he is surprised. At the first touch of Dean’s lips to his own, though, Castiel pulls back, startled.

Dean sways on his feet, a clear sign of his inebriation, and he grins stupidly as Castiel blinks at him, as if one more bat of his borrowed eyelashes will bring clarity to the situation. The touch of Dean’s lips was soft, more due to poor aim than the power of Castiel’s Grace, and Dean’s hand comes up to curve his palm against Castiel’s jaw to steady himself.

“Can you feel this?” Dean asks. Castiel has always known drunk people to squint blearily under heavy eyelids, but Dean’s eyes are open and bright. His words are still blurred as he talks, and he takes a step closer. “Can you feel this?” he asks again, and the way he asks the question makes something shock Castiel down to his core, making him feel separate from this borrowed vessel.

He reaches his hand out – not his, never his – and Dean closes his eyes. His hand doesn’t mirror Dean’s; instead he reaches out two fingers, and he touches Dean’s forehead, making sure to catch the other man before he hits the dirty carpet of the motel.

\---

Jimmy isn’t there anymore. Any lingering whispers of the man who had once put his faith in Castiel – in God – is long gone, destroyed with a single word from Lucifer.

Jimmy isn’t there anymore, but the body that Castiel wears is still a vessel – it still isn’t wholly his. Even after two years, the weight of this human skin is strange to Castiel – confining, but it’s the only way that Dean can see him, so Castiel shrouds himself in flesh.

Being tied so closely to his vessel has changed Castiel (in ways, it has changed him more than his so-called new and improved powers), and there’s a strange, uncomfortable pull deep in his gut when he next sees Dean.

Dean isn’t staggering underneath the weight of alcohol anymore, and he holds his hand against his forehead, squinting as Castiel appears in the motel.

“You wouldn’t be able to zap my migraine away, would you, Cas? What’s a little abuse of power between friends?” He laughs, harsh through his dry throat, and Dean takes a sip of the lukewarm water that Castiel had left by the bedside table the night before. “Sam took the last of the advil,” he says, adding a mumbled “Jerk ass” as an afterthought.

Castiel doesn’t move closer toward Dean, instead, he watches Dean rub his calloused hands blearily against his eyes. Two years ago, in what Castiel thinks of as the time before, he wouldn’t even consider using his Grace to heal a human from mild discomfort, but now, his fingers twitch at his sides.

Dean groans at the single sliver of morning sun that peaks through the gap in the blinds, and before Castiel processes it, he’s standing in front of Dean, pressing his fingers against Dean’s forehead. He can feel the warmth of his Grace transfer, and Dean sighs.

“Much better. Thanks.” He takes another sip of water before looking up at Castiel, and in the dim light of the motel room, Castiel can read every thought of worry in Dean’s eyes. “Not that I don’t appreciate the painkillers, but what are you doing here, Cas?”

It’s clear from his question that Dean doesn’t remember the night before, and Castiel doesn’t know whether or not he’s happy about that, whether or not it makes everything easier. It doesn’t really, he knows.

He’s still not comfortable with lying or omitting, which Dean insists isn’t lying at all, so he says, “I wanted to make sure you were alright after last night. You were severely intoxicated.”

Dean quirks an eyebrow. “So that’s how I got home,” he says. “Did you drive my baby back, too?”

“The bar was just down the street,” Castiel says. “The Impala is safe in the parking lot.”

“Well, thanks for the delivery service, I guess.” He stands up, blinking at Castiel until he takes a step back, and then Dean is moving around the motel, stuffing his clothes back into his worn duffle. “I should get on the road. Can’t leave Sammy at Bobby’s too long.”

Castiel stands there, unsure if Dean’s words are meant to be a cue to leave, but then he gives Castiel a look.

“You haven’t seen Bobby in a while,” he says. His eyes break from Castiel’s as Dean meticulously folds his socks, in a move that seems to be completely out of character. “Why don’t you tag along? It must get boring up in Heaven without me.”

“It does,” Castiel responds. He says it because it’s the truth, but Dean’s hands stop his folding for a moment before he lets out a chuckle.

“You not making friends on the playground?” Dean asks. “Don’t worry, you can tell me all about it over breakfast.”

Castiel knows that he and Dean aren’t going to talk about anything of value over breakfast. Castiel won’t say that he feels alienated from his Brothers and Sisters – trapped somewhere between two worlds, and Dean won’t say what Castiel knows he’s feeling: that everything seems to be too calm, too perfect (with Sam coming back whole and demons taking a vacation from evil) and he’s waiting for the fallout. 

Regardless, Castiel follows Dean out of the motel room and into the Impala, driving to the nearby diner, where Dean tells a story about a teacher he had in middle school who was most certainly some sort of demon, and Castiel listens.

\---

Castiel likes riding in the Impala. The seats are big and comfortable – worn in by years of use. The streets run smooth underneath her tires. Listening to Dean, Castiel knows there are hundreds of wonderful things about the Impala, but Castiel’s favorite is that it makes Dean happy. A single block of metal makes Dean smile, so while Castiel could get to Bobby’s far faster flying, he sits in the car passively and listens to the music that Dean plays, his strumming fingers on the steering wheel mimicking the drum part from some band that Castiel can never seem to remember.

“Jimmy was a drummer in school,” Castiel says, raising his voice just slightly to be heard over the sound of the guitar solo. “He had thought about starting a band, but then he met Amelia.”

“Amelia not a music fan, then?” Dean asks. His eyes dart between the road and Castiel. It’s a sure sign that he’s judging the flow of the conversation, because whenever Dean is comfortable, his eyes always look straight ahead.

The truth is, there are many reasons why Jimmy didn’t form that rock band he had fantasized about as a child, but Castiel explains it to Dean in the way in which he can most relate. “Amelia was mostly ambivalent of music,” he allows, and then says, “Jimmy simply realized that he had other people counting on him.”

That, Castiel knows, Dean understands.

“Shitty garage bands never make it, anyway,” Dean says. There is a moment or two of silence, and then Dean speaks again, his voice schooled into practiced nonchalance, the one he’s been using for years. “You and Jimmy chat much these days?”

“No,” Castiel responds. “Jimmy and I no longer share this vessel. I am here alone.”

He’s alone in this body just as he’s alone in Heaven, still isolated from his Brethren. Now, the only connections Castiel has is to a weakening body and three smart-mouthed humans.

Castiel watches as Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, his knuckles turning a pale white (close to the color his skin was when Castiel had first remade him). Dean looks at him, not just out of the corner of his eyes, but full on, and Castiel worries for a moment that they’ll crash. But Dean’s grip is steady.

“You’re not alone, Cas,” Dean says.

\---

They make it to Bobby’s in good time, but night has long fallen by the time they get there, and Dean drags his heavy legs up the driveway to Bobby’s house. “I’ll crash on the chair, if you want to take the couch,” Dean says.

“I don’t need to sleep,” Castiel says, tilting his head a little in confusion, because Dean knows that. “I will read while you rest.”

The sleep in Dean’s eyes is visible, and he yawns as he makes a noise of agreement to Castiel. “You’re going to be here in the morning, right?” Dean asks. His voice is quiet as he opens the front door to Bobby’s house, and Castiel is glad that Bobby and Sam know of their arrival and are soundly sleeping.

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel says, because he’s not going to leave Dean when he wants him. He doesn’t want to return to the cold isolation of Heaven, where his Brothers and Sisters seem to be wary of him at best, and hostile at worst.

“Good,” Dean says, and he crashes down on the couch, watching as Castiel grabs a book from the shelf before his eyes close and Castiel settles down in the worn armchair. 

He doesn’t spend much time that night thinking about Dean or the way their lips had fit together, but his mind does wander, and for a moment, with only the dim light of the desk lamp lightening the room, Castiel can almost feel the weight of Dean’s lips against his.

\---

Without case after case, Castiel knows that the Winchesters are growing bored. Soon, he thinks, they will have to find something new, something else to give them a sense of purpose. That morning, over a breakfast of toast and bacon and eggs, Sam says, “I’m thinking about going back to school,” and Castiel watches as Dean stops the ravenous chewing of his toast.

Dean will never stand in the way of his brother and his happiness, but Castiel knows that there’s a reason that Sam’s voice is hesitant and Dean takes an extra moment to take a sip of coffee. 

“Sammy,” Dean says, and Bobby stands up to head out of the kitchen, making a motion for Castiel to follow him.

“We should let those morons figure out some things,” Bobby says, and he reaches for an old copy of a Hemingway book.

Bobby is adjusting well to the semi-retirement.

Castiel sits beside him, listening to the low sounds of Dean and Sam talking in the kitchen, voices crescendoing every so often, and the quiet flick of each page of Bobby’s novel.

\---

Dean doesn’t say anything and Castiel doesn’t ask, but when Dean leaves Bobby’s without Sam, Castiel goes with him.

\---

In the following weeks, Castiel grows used to a lot of things. He gets used to the apparently watered-down diner coffee that makes his tongue tingle. He gets used to nights of watching Dean sleep, one eye always on the door, just in case. He gets used to quick trips to above, where the welcome is always cold and distant.

He gets used to a lot of things, but he never gets used to the way that a single brush of Dean’s skin against his (a knock of arms, a reassuring pat on the back, anything) can make him feel so disoriented. Every time Dean touches the body of his vessel, Castiel feels more exposed, as if the layers of clothes and skin and bones don’t mean anything.

“If Jimmy isn’t there anymore,” Dean asks one rainy night as they’re sitting in the motel, watching some television show that Dean has informed him is called a guilty-pleasure, “is the body yours now?”

It’s a yes or no question without a yes or no answer, and Castiel says, “I suppose it’s as much mine as any person’s body is his or her own.”

Dean gives him an unamused look. “You know what I mean,” he says.

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits. The vessel is quickly becoming a part of him, more so now that it’s just him. Despite his Grace, he still feels more strongly than he should; he’s more human than he should be, and the only explanation Castiel can come to is that his familiarity with this body is what is grounding him here.

“You don’t have to eat or sleep,” Dean says, and Castiel nods in agreement.

“No, but there are changes. There are things I want now.”

“Like what?” Dean asks, his lips pursing around the question.

Castiel thinks again about that night, when Dean’s breath – smoky and dark with liquor – had lingered with Castiel’s own.

Castiel doesn’t answer Dean’s question, but he says, “It’s not like before,” and Dean seems satisfied.

\---

After so many weeks of inactivity, the demon takes Dean by surprise, and even Castiel hadn’t suspected that the motel receptionist was anything but a disillusioned middle-aged man.

The first hit of the man’s fists against Dean’s face makes Castiel call out, and he lunges toward the demon, pulling him off Dean. He burns the evil out easily, but even after the body of the man falls to the ground, breathing steadily now, Dean looks surprised. 

“Fuck,” Dean says, raising his hand up to feel where his skin has split at the man’s punch. His fingers come away bloody.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks. He wants to wipe the blood off of Dean’s lower lip, but the receptionist lies between them, blocking Castiel’s path. He watches Dean’s tongue swipe at the blood, lightening the dark red.

“I’m growing rusty,” Dean says, laughing almost.

Castiel doesn’t laugh – he sees nothing funny about the swell of Dean’s cheek or the crumbled form of the man on the floor. “Does it hurt?” he asks, reaching out across the man toward Dean’s cut.

Dean flinches away at Castiel’s touch. “It’s fine,” he says, laughter gone. “We should find another motel.”

\---

The second time that Dean gets so drunk that he can’t walk a straight line to the bar door, Castiel takes a tight hold onto Dean’s arm and leads him out into the cool night.

“You’re warm,” Dean says, leaning against Castiel as they walk. Whether it’s for heat or stability, Castiel doesn’t know, but he lets Dean tilt against his side, all the same.

“You’re drunk,” Castiel responds, and he can feel Dean shake his head against his trench coat. 

“I’m not,” he insists.

Castiel knows better, though. “You won’t remember this night when you wake,” he says. And it’s a tempting thought. Dean won’t remember in the morning, and Castiel can finally stop the underlying buzzing in his skin. But still, Castiel simply leads Dean to his bed.

He takes Dean’s shoes off and helps him under the covers.

In the morning, Dean complains of a headache again, and thanks Castiel for removing his shoes.

\---

On a Thursday, Castiel realizes he has free will for the first time. Complete free will, all his own. He doesn’t have to answer to angels or Heaven or even Dean. He has no person or thing telling him what to do, but Castiel learns that sometimes it’s easier to follow a set plan.

Without orders, Castiel finds himself listless, and he knows that Dean feels the same.

“I never thought I’d be wishing for something to hunt,” Dean says. It’s been day after day of the same: driving and eating and sleeping. “I’m getting cabin fever. What we need is something to shake us out of this funk,” he says. “We should hit a bar or surf the net more to find hunts. Anything.”

And Castiel knows that they could do any of those things, but he doesn’t want to. What he wants to do is lean across the faded comforter and press his mouth to Dean’s, so he does.

The first moment after their lips touch, Dean freezes, but then he lets a huff of laughter out against Castiel’s lips and kisses him back.

“Can you feel that?” Dean asks when he pulls back. “Really feel that?”

Castiel smiles, and the pull on his lips isn’t as foreign as it used to be. “Yes,” he says. “I can.”

“Good,” Dean says, and he kisses him again.

The kiss is soft, lazy, almost, and Castiel knows that there isn’t any rush. They can take their time.

\---

In the morning, Castiel stretches out, reveling in the warm pull of his muscles.


End file.
